


Grim Undertakings

by fancyboots



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Afterlife, Banishment, Brother and Sister - Freeform, Daddy Issues, Death, Demigods, Friendship, Gen, Gods, Grim Reaper - Freeform, Merry Christmas, Penance - Freeform, Punishment, Souls, Underworld, after tumeken sends amascut and icthlarin to jail :/, aka the underworld, desert gods, desert pantheon, estranged father-son relationship, kharidian desert, learning to be humble via the patience of an undead being that collects souls, oh god it hurt putting that tag in there but it's not wrong?????, ok there that works better, river noumenon, there needs to be a better term in the context of deities, this was written for a secret santa, very small hints at the beginning of friendship rather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28072566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyboots/pseuds/fancyboots
Summary: The demigods, Icthlarin and Amascut, are sent to act as caretakers of the Underworld by their father Tumeken. A punishment for their failings on the surface world. Icthlarin guides souls of the dead to their chosen afterlife, while Amascut performs reincarnation for the souls that are destined to live again in another form. Of course given the location, Death pays a visit.Or in short - an initial meeting between the Grim Reaper and Icthlarin.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Grim Undertakings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deadcanons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadcanons/gifts).



> Massive thank you to Chaos_Elemental for the beta read! Check their AO3 for some top-tier RuneScape fics.

Watching the shapeless forms of the soul wisps float around aimlessly might have been a form of meditation for him years prior. There was something graceful about them, at a highly superficial level.

As it was, the souls only conjured one word to mind for Icthlarin. _Punishment_.

He leant against one of the stone walls at the mouth of the Noumenon, arms crossed awkwardly as he held the torch. He stared up at the ridiculous stone statue of himself some distance down the bridge’s path. Statues of both Amascut and himself in their animal forms were standing vigil either side at the beginning of the bridge. A reminder of their humble beginnings, graciously left as a parting gift by their father.

 _Or crude humiliation_ , Icthlarin thought.

He was simmering down from another argument spawned between himself and his sister, which ended in harsh shouting and blasts of destructive magic. They were both too evenly matched, the magical blasts left a greater mark on the fortress walls than their own constitution.

Icthlarin had teleported out, getting away from Amascut just as she screamed a final venomous remark at him. They were both in a bitter frame of mind. Icthlarin was in no emotional state to talk things out rationally, and neither was Amascut. Their fights seemed to stem from petty triggers in retrospect. But they were more the result of steady anger left waiting over time, unchecked and unrelieved, before finally exploding.

Despite the show of power, neither of them truly meant to leave any lasting damage to one another. Not really. They always pulled punches in these fights. It took a cooldown to acknowledge it, but despite all their clashes, they needed each other. It was the only thing they had left now.

Icthlarin heard the sound of teleportation spark and then dissipate some distance behind him. It seemed Amascut had reached her tolerance for reincarnations this day and had arrived back at the Noumenon. Likely to resume their previous argument.

‘You demanded that I leave you to your task in peace, Amascut,’ Icthlarin said. ‘Intruding on my work only a short time later makes you something of a hypocrite.’

Icthlarin hadn’t heard any footsteps. He turned around to ask what she was staring at, but instead found Gielinor’s appointed Reaper. He began gliding towards Icthlarin quite casually.

The tall figure, wreathed in a dark blue hood and cloak and wielding his soul-severing scythe, stopped a few steps away from Icthlarin. Two piercing blue orbs, resting where his eyes would have been, were glowing beyond the darkness created by the hood. Floating a little above the ground, he rose slightly taller than Icthlarin.

Icthlarin had known about him of course. ‘Death’, a Guardian of Guthix and the being responsible for collecting the souls of the fallen. He was the division between life and death, and the one who deposited souls to the Underworld. For ‘processing’, as Icthlarin and Amascut had begun to call it.

Crossing his arms, Icthlarin met Death’s gaze.

The cloaked figure didn’t offer much in the way of emotion.

‘I am to understand that both yourself and the other divine being from the Kharidian lands are here to assume the task of caretaking within the Underworld. Is this correct?’ asked the Reaper.

‘The ‘other divine being’ is my sister, Amascut,’ Icthlarin replied, ‘And you are correct.’ _Unfortunately_ , he wanted to append. He salvaged some restraint.

Death took a moment to observe Icthlarin. A demigod ascended from pieces of divine energy plucked from the hearts of his creators, the Menaphite deities. The resemblance of a jackal was a remnant of his humble beginning in mortal life. He served no purpose rather than to fulfill the desire for progeny shared by both Tumeken and Elidinis.

The Reaper contemplated what Guthix would make of this, had the god of balance been awake when this divine procreation transpired. Two more gods placed on Gielinor, inevitably worshipped by mortals.

At present, Guthix was still sleeping. And despite it all, there were mortal souls still requiring collection. With the departure of the previous caretaker, Death would accept these replacements from Tumeken so long as it meant the wheel kept turning. It was for the benefit of mortal kind that death and afterlife continue to function, and someone was needed to perform the required tasks.

Odd it was however, the efforts put forward by the leading Menaphite gods to produce these two descendants - only for them to be discarded in the Underworld. There was surely some further context Death had not been informed about.

He glided past Icthlarin, towards the bridge.

‘You are aware that I cannot slow my collection, let alone stop it.’

Death continued towards the mouth of the Noumenon crossing. Icthlarin turned, hesitated for a moment, then walked quickly after him to catch up. The ethereal green flame in his torch flicked with the movement, held loosely in hand and flying back and forth as he paced along.

There was much he had to say on the matter. And if Tumeken was not present, Icthlarin was determined to make the Reaper hear it by default.

‘There are far too many,’ Icthlarin started. ‘I shepherd one group of souls to the end of the crossing, and there is another one – double the size – waiting for me back at the other end. It is relentless!’

He waited for Death to say something. But the Reaper continued floating silently. He held his scythe up in front, examining it while they proceeded along the bridge. Frustrated, Icthlarin pushed on.

‘And what is the point exactly – what is to gain by leading these mortals towards a life after death? It’s their responsibility to make the most of the life they were granted. If they need a second round through reincarnation or a retreat to the afterlife, then they have clearly squandered their first opportunity at living.’

The Reaper remained silent for a time, considering Icthlarin’s words.

‘In some regards you are correct,’ Death replied. ‘Although your perspective on the matter is limited.’

Death thumbed at the edge of his scythe blade with diligence, continuing to glide along the bridge while Icthlarin kept pace at his side. He failed to catch the offended glare thrown by the demigod. Instead, Death asked him another question.

‘Do you talk to the souls you transport?’

‘For what purpose?’ Icthlarin responded, a bit sharper than usual.

Death turned to look at him, maintaining his pace as he glided across the Noumenon bridge. There was a severity to the Reaper’s face. At least initially, Icthlarin had thought as much. Beyond the inhuman visage there seemed to be something else there that was…affable. He always assumed the Reaper was some sort of automaton. Once a mortal human, changed into something emotionless and calculating by Guthix. Surely someone fitting this description was required for a job that involved only death.

What did that leave to say about himself and Amascut? Reluctantly, the demigod began to draw unfavourable conclusions. Was the view he held of himself a dishonest one?

No, someone would have brought it to his attention. His mother, or his father. But if his father had sent them to the Underworld as caretakers…

Before Icthlarin could fall into that internal reflection more deeply, the Reaper pulled him back from his thoughts with another enquiry.

‘Why are the two of you here?’

Huffing to himself at that one, Icthlarin decided to humour the Reaper rather than ignore him.

‘Our father neglected to mention those details to you?’ Icthlarin asked. ‘Not surprising in the least.’

‘You speak with a tone of resentment.’

Icthlarin let out a short breathless laugh.

‘I suppose it doesn’t come as a shock to me, that a being like yourself so preoccupied with the dead and dying can’t read anger in a living thing when it is conversing two steps beside him.’

Icthlarin looked to Death, wondering what other useless remarks he had ready to deliver. But when he focused on those glowing blue orb eyes it looked like – silly as it was, it looked almost like the Reaper was smiling.

The low chuckle that emitted from the Reaper reaffirmed Icthlarin’s observation.

Surprised as he was by the show of emotion from Death, Icthlarin preferred to keep a cap on things. The Reaper clearly didn’t understand the courtesy of keeping generous distance around particular areas of discussion, and Icthlarin did not want to encourage further prodding or worse - a feeling of welcomeness.

Despite that fact, Death pushed on.

‘You misunderstand me, Icthlarin, though I do appreciate the dry response.’ Death looked out beyond the misty clouds blanketing the River Noumenon, before continuing.

‘It is clear you despise this place. In your current scenario, it is a prison. I did not fully understand why Tumeken would send his son and daughter to the Underworld, as appreciative as I was for the vacant roles being fulfilled. I still don’t have that question answered clearly. I can only see that this area of discussion is one of great personal anguish for yourself.’

Icthlarin flinched a bit at that last part before he could catch himself. He hoped that Death was still looking at the clouds on the river.

‘I expect the same could be said for Amascut,’ Death said, breaking his gaze from the river and turning back to Icthlarin. ‘Though I am yet to speak with her more closely.’

Icthlarin shifted his glance back to Death at the mention of his sister.

Reading his concern, Death eased the demigod’s unspoken anxiety. ‘I will not query her as I have done so with you. Enough detail has been gleaned from our talk.’

A pause of silence rested between them, the only sound being Icthlarin’s even steps across the bridge.

‘So that is what this was about?’ Icthlarin finally asked. ‘Gathering intelligence?’ He stopped walking, and Death stopped alongside him, still floating in one space.

‘A little more pragmatic than I expected of you, Reaper,’ Icthlarin added.

Death chuckled briefly again. It was still a bit perplexing to see the Reaper give any show of contentment, considering his role in the world. But something about it fitted to his character by a small degree.

‘On the contrary, Icthlarin,’ said Death, ‘You asked me what purpose there was in speaking to the souls you guide along the Noumenon - leading them into their respective afterlives. I was answering that question.’

Death stretched an arm out, gesturing behind them. Icthlarin turned around and saw a group of twenty to thirty soul wisps floating gracefully on the bridge several paces behind. Icthlarin held the torch before himself, looking into its flame. The souls were following its light, their guide to the place beyond death.

He looked further back, at the stretch of the bridge behind their party of souls. Icthlarin didn’t realise they had covered so much ground. He had only been talking to Death for a few minutes, surely?

Seeing Icthlarin become aware of their surroundings at the opposite end of the bridge, the Reaper continued speaking.

‘You may not like my saying so, but I do look forward to working in tandem with yourself and your sister,’ Death said. ‘In these early days, I will remain at your disposal.’

His voice was genuine, one that didn’t try for embellishments or tricks. He had never really found a need for them, even in life.

Raising an arm casually, Death snapped his fingers. It was an odd sound with them consisting only of bone, and it resonated across the stone platform at the end of the bridge.

Icthlarin, still staring at the opposite end of the Noumenon, heard the grinding of heavy stone behind him. He spun around to see the massive doors of the Underworld slowly parting. Beyond them was gaping darkness. It wasn’t so much a darkness that elicited fear, but more so potential. Beyond those doors, into the darkness… what followed next all depended on where the souls were destined to arrive.

Death was interested in spending more time alongside this demigod and his sister - only to understand them more thoroughly. And perhaps, with time, assist them to manage the burden thrust upon them.

‘Speak to the souls,’ Death said, ‘Extract whatever picture you can from their stories during your journey down the Noumenon. It brings comfort to these souls, plucked from the world they knew and placed into the Underworld.’ Death’s scythe began to glow a brilliant shade of blue, like his eyes.

‘If nothing else, these conversations will make your trips seem a fraction shorter.’

Icthlarin felt like he had more to ask of the Reaper. More questions, more requests. But it all died away when he tried to talk. Something about their situation felt complete, and in the end, he favoured that feeling over all other unresolved problems still lingering in the back of his head. They were for another time.

‘We will see each other again. Quite regularly, no doubt,’ Death said. ‘But I must return to reaping.’

Flourishing the scythe in a circle, a practised motion out of habit rather than necessity, Death raised the soul-severing tool high in the air.

‘And you may call me Harold if you wish. Among friends, it’s sometimes preferable to hear my first name rather than my title.’

The Reaper disappeared in a flash of blue light, teleporting with the scythe. Icthlarin was left behind with the group of floating souls in close vicinity.

Raising the torch still firmly in his hand, Icthlarin hesitated for a moment, looking towards the souls. Each of them once a person with some life lived on the surface world, now finding themselves in the Underworld at the end of it all. Not too unlike himself in that regard.

He gestured with his free hand at the open doors, leading towards the afterlife. The torch was enough for them to know the way. But still, Death’s advice was lingering.

‘Follow me, and stay close,’ Icthlarin said to the souls, a little uncertain, and not entirely sure what else to offer in the way of words.

‘We have some way to go yet.’

Icthlarin turned around and walked through the doorway. The souls followed his torch and the direction of his voice.

**Author's Note:**

> "This is not a title I ever wished to possess, mortal. It was thrust upon me by my father, Tumeken. Like a child I resisted. It was a different time, and I was yet to learn the weight of responsibility."
> 
> \- Icthlarin, Gauntlet of Souls event.


End file.
